


Extracts from A. J. Rimmer's Brief Guide and Memoir to the Pregnancy of Dave Lister

by starknight



Series: A is for Accidental, B is for Babies, C is for Lister Can’t Spell [1]
Category: Red Dwarf (UK TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Arnold Rimmer, POV First Person, Post-Season/Series 02, Pregnancy, Pregnant Dave Lister, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: They say there are seven stages of grief.They also say there are three trimesters of pregnancy.Lister’s pregnancy, on the other hand, involved eleven separate stages, none of which can be succinctly summarized, but all of which I have endeavoured to. It is, after all, my duty to record the many humiliations I know he would rather I forget entirely.
Relationships: Dave Lister/Arnold Rimmer
Series: A is for Accidental, B is for Babies, C is for Lister Can’t Spell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876405
Comments: 55
Kudos: 55





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thank you to celestialharmonies for introducing me to this fandom and showing me all the episodes and yelling with me about all the characters ♥♥♥
> 
> Second point to note, Rimmer is a hard light hologram in this because it's more fun, but it's set post season 2. This absolutely will not be canon-compliant as it is.
> 
> Lastly, I am fandom baby so please be easy on me ❤

They say there are seven stages of grief.

They also say there are three trimesters of pregnancy.

Lister’s pregnancy, on the other hand, involved eleven separate stages, none of which can be succinctly summarized, but all of which I have endeavoured to. It is, after all, my duty to record the many humiliations I know he would rather I forget entirely.

**1\. Denial**

“I’m not pregnant,” said Lister. “I’m not!”

I, being a kind and sympathetic friend, patted him gently on the shoulder.

“I know this is hard to accept,” said I.

A moment’s silence followed.

“And?” he demanded. “And?”

“Well, that’s it, really. It’s hard to accept you’re pregnant. But you are.” I patted his shoulder again, but he pushed my hand away.

“Oh my god, I am.” He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. Up until now, I had (of course) been comforting and generally supportive. I sensed that it was a good moment for a piece of my tactful and uplifting humour.

“Ahh, it’s going to be alright, Listy. Now you know what those poor overdone poppadoms you make feel like.”

“What the smeg does an overdone poppadom have to do with being knocked up?”

“You should’ve taken it out earlier.” 

Ah, my dear readers, if only there was a live audience to give me the uproarious laughter I deserve on a daily basis. They would have gone wild. I’m sure that many of you have given a little chuckle behind the page just now, and that will have to satisfy me, for Lister showed no sign of enjoying my hilarity.

“Smeg off,” he said. 


	2. More Denial

**2\. More Denial**

“You know,” said Lister, “Pregnancy is one of those things that seems too weird to be true, isn’t it?”

“You know what I think is too weird to be true?” said I, about to impart a gem of wisdom upon my audience.

“Like, you do the do, and then there’s a mini person - a real mini person - that grows inside you. It’s like a miracle or something.”

“The standardized light bulb. It was a terrible problem, you know, when electricity was first popularized, because all the light bulb manufacturers had differently shaped sockets. Except this poor bloke whose name no-one ever remembers came along and fought for there to be a standard, one-size-fits-all approach. He got it down to two before he died. Probably from the stress. And then someone else, whose name almost certainly starts with a B - or was it a C? - no, a B, I think - came along and whittled it down to just the screw bulb. Et voila.”

I smiled at Listy, who stared back, presumably in awe of my vast intellect.

“You know where you can stick your screw bulb, don’t you?”

Or perhaps not.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that growing a person just seems too weird to be true. So it’s probably not, right? Maybe pregnancy is just this big hoax, like one of those invasive marketing campaigns or something.”

His mind was clearly beginning to be addled by the influx of baby hormones already.

“Where else are you suggesting babies come from, exactly?”

Lister’s face fell so hard that I almost felt bad for him. Almost.


	3. Morning Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for vomiting, morning sickness

**3\. Morning Sickness**

It was with a start that I awoke.

“Listy?” I called, rubbing my eyes. “Listy, did you take your socks off again?”

A coughing, splattering sound was the only reply.

“It smells  _ terrible,” _ I groaned, not feeling altogether charitable at this early morning wake-up call. “Can’t you put them in the waste ejector instead of leaving them lying around?”

“It’s not my socks!” Lister yelled. “It’s -”

But he cut off, and more splattering sounded. Cogs began to turn, and my highly analytical brain came up with a different explanation for the stench.

“Better out than in,” I said, not without sympathy. I rose to my feet and leant against the side of the bathroom door. “Curry caught up with you?”

From where he was bent over the toilet, Lister threw me a look full of (unnecessary) exasperation.

“It’s morning sickness, Rimmer. Morning sickness. I’m pregnant, remember?”

“Oh.” I’ll admit, I felt like a bit of a dolt at this point. But it was four in the morning, and no man is at his best then.

“Ohhh,” Lister mimicked, and then,  _ “ohhhh,” _ as another bout of nausea must have rocked him. He bent back over the toilet bowl, and started to heave. His dreadlocks, with all the grace and convenience of a bad traffic light algorithm, swung straight into the projectile zone.

“Honestly,” I huffed, but being the good and dedicated person I am, I stepped forwards and flicked them back over his shoulder.

“Don’t touch my hair,” he said, and promptly threw up. The dreadlocks showed all the signs of being drawn straight into the spray, so despite my orders, I held them back.

Listy and I see each other in a number of strange situations, a lot of which are fairly disgusting, and almost all of which would be useful for blackmail if there was anyone worth blackmailing left alive on this ship. This was definitely a disgusting, blackmail-worthy situation if there ever was one. But there’s something indescribably bonding about seeing the most human part of your (dare I say it) friend on display, and not flinching from it.

Perhaps Lister felt the same, because afterwards, instead of yelling at me about his hair like I expected, he thanked me.

And passed out immediately on the bathroom floor.


	4. The Bump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've finished all of canon now and the moonlight scene filled my heart to bursting oh my god 😭♥ anyway enjoy, the dynamic here is probably influenced by the later seasons I've just watched: essentially, soft.

**4\. The Bump**

I have been known to say that if Lister spent as much time in the shower as he does in front of the mirror, he might actually be worth looking at. So it came as no surprise to wake up one morning and find him, as usual, preening over his unwashed form.

“Big day?” I asked.

“Bigger than yours,” he replied. He didn’t seem to really notice me, though. 

I waved my hand in front of his face, but he still didn’t respond. He was looking slightly downwards, with a strange expression on his face. 

I stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror.

“Hey!” he said, pushing me out of the way. “I’m actually using this, alright?”

“What for?”

“Is it just me, or is there a bump?” He turned sideways to study his profile, and raised his shirt up to reveal his stomach.

“You’re getting a pot belly already,” I delighted.

“Rimmer,” Lister said, sounding put out. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh,” said I, who hadn’t actually clicked on what he’d meant. “Oh, right.”

I stared at the bump, which was actually, definitely, properly a bump. It hadn’t quite sunk in that pregnancy led to more pregnancy, and more pregnancy led to a real live human child.

“You’re growing a person. An actual real person.”

“I am.” Lister brought a hand tentatively to his belly. “Rimmer, that’s my kid.”

As a general rule, unsolicited touch between Lister and I is unacceptable. It had been one of the things we’d laid out as soon as we’d realized we’d be living alone together for the foreseeable future, for both his sanity and mine. And yet, although we both adhered to it quite strictly (apart from in times of crisis), I found myself eager to break it just then.

“Do you wanna feel?” Lister asked before I could.

For one who has such a naturally flowing wit, it was odd to find myself speechless. I nodded dumbly, and let him take my hand and press it against his skin.

He was warm, and I could feel his pulse - or was it mine? - pick up, going a little unsteady. He was grinning like a lunatic, and I found myself helpless not to return the smile.

“No sarcastic remarks?” he asked. “Got nothing amusing to say?”

But try as I might, I couldn’t find it in myself to ruin the moment.


	5. Denial: Twins Edition

**5\. Denial: Twins Edition**

I had some doubts about Kryten’s suitability to be conducting an ultrasound, but he assured me it was something he had handled personally many times. Lister pulled up his shirt and watched as Kryten poured clear gel over his stomach. He poked a finger into it, and put it into his mouth.

“Mr. Lister, sir, are you quite sure that’s -”

“Haven’t died yet, have I?” said Lister cheerfully. “Come on, then, get on with it.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing from my position by Lister’s bed. Kryten had angled the screen so we could both see it. I’d never seen a live ultrasound before, so naturally I was curious.

Kryten began to move the ultrasound probe around Lister’s stomach, resulting in blurry grey skittering across the screen. My breath caught in my throat. Would we see a little hand, or a head?

The picture steadied, and slowly features began to form on the screen. It wasn’t exactly the shape I expected - less like a bean, and more like… two beans.

“What?” Lister asked, craning his neck and throwing his hand out in surprise. I happened to be in the way of said hand, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The picture went blurry again, but Kryten steadied it for us, confirming my initial suspicion.

“Twins,” I said faintly.

“Oh, smeg,” Lister swore. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“Is everything alright?” Kryten asked.

Lister batted away the probe and leaned forwards, putting his head in his hands.

“Twins,” he echoed. _“Twins.”_

“I knew there was a reason humanity evolved with two hands,” I quipped, but it fell flat.

“I can’t do it,” Lister said. “I was already gonna be a shit dad, but two of them is too much. I’m going to be half of a shitty dad to both of them.”

“Lister,” I said calmly, “I’ve had a shitty dad, and trust me, you care too much to be one. You’re stressed. That means you’re _trying._ You’re going to be fine.”

He turned to me with the desperate look of a man in his twenties who hasn’t been able to consume satisfactory amounts of curry or alcohol in weeks and won’t be able to for months to come.

“Help me, Rimmer,” he said, clutching at my hand. “I can’t do it on my own.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little dizzy. 

Twins was one thing to picture happening to Lister. But they would be in our bunkroom, one assumed, and so a certain amount of involvement on my behalf was only natural. Like many things in my life, this moment would have been much less surprising with some forethought. 

“Please, Rimmer. Cat’s not going to be interested, and Kryten’s a mech. These kids need more than just me in their life. Maybe this is why you’re still here. Maybe this is why Holly chose you.”

I don’t pretend, even to myself, that Holly chose me for any reason other than to drive Lister bonkers enough to want to stay alive. But Lister didn’t know that, and the implication that I would make anything that wasn’t a terrible parent made me feel taller somehow. 

“I need you,” said Lister, tugging on my hand.

I’d never been needed in my life, apart from my new assignment as Lister’s bonkers-booster. I felt that if I was needed, really, truly needed, then perhaps I could do it. Take on the challenge. Help Lister raise his twins.

“I’m here,” I heard myself say. “I’ll help you.”


	6. Heavy

**6\. Heavy**

I think we had both known it was coming for a while. For the past few weeks, Lister had had to use a chair to clamber up into his bunk, and the whole thing had become much slower and less dignified over time. It shouldn’t have been possible for Lister to become less dignified, but somehow it was.

That night, I was reclining on my bed, reading the _Morris Dancer Monthly._ Lister waddled in, looked up at his bunk, and sighed. He put his hands on his now-pudgy hips.

“This isn’t working,” he said.

“I’m so glad we’re on the same page,” I commented wittily, not looking up from my magazine. “You can have the snotty, snivelling kids, and I’ll take the house. Deal?”

“The bunks, Rimmer.”

“I’ll be taking them, too. I’ll bring the divorce papers round tomorrow in exchange for some passive-aggressive herbal tea and chats.”

“Stop being stupid,” said Lister. He sounded tired, but not the usual kind of tolerant tired. “I want to go to bed, and this isn’t _working.”_

I flung the magazine aside, sighed dramatically, and got up from my bunk. I stood next to him, and looked at the bunks.

“We could install an elevator,” I suggested. “Or an escalator. Or you could invest in a really good pogo stick.”

He snorted, and then swayed in a rather alarming fashion. I caught his shoulder and guided him to my bunk.

“It’s okay, I’ll sleep somewhere else,” he said, his head nodding as he did. “I’ll… Another bunk… room…”

“Just for tonight,” I said, and pushed him down. “Don’t take your socks off, whatever you do.”

“Mmmmhmm,” he said, his mouth already going slack with sleep. A second later he was snoring.

I stared at him for a bit, and then I covered him with my blanket. It was odd to see my neatly embroidered _A. J. Rimmer_ resting just beneath his chin.

I turned my head back to the task at hand: namely, climbing onto the top bunk. When Lister wasn’t pregnant he’d always just sort of bounded up there. I wouldn’t (I would absolutely never) describe him as _smooth,_ but as lumpy slobby apes go, the motion was… coordinated. I stepped up onto the stool and attempted to recreate the same movement.

I know now that I can empathise totally with a small chubby penguin who just can’t quite get up onto a rock. 

After a few tries, though, I did manage to heave myself into Lister’s bunk. I flopped down on the pillow, and breathed in. It was a Listy sort of scent, overtones of curry with undertones of engine grease. I thought I would hate it.

And actually I did sort of hate it.

Just not quite as much as I should have.


	7. Swollen Feet

**7\. Swollen Feet**

Lister was sprawled pathetically on my bunk, as he was wont to do of late. I was fiddling with a crochet hook and a bundle of wool, as I was wont to do of late. The Cat was sitting in the corner, watching the wool like a hawk (rather, a cat), as he was wont to do of late.

(For lack of anything better to read, I’d taken to tucking the dictionary beneath my pillow - well, Lister’s pillow - and opening it at random pages. Last night I’d found _wont._ )

“Ow,” Lister moaned, pushing himself up. “Look, I think I’m gonna have to take my socks off.”

The Cat and I both whipped our heads from the wool to Lister in horror.

“What? No! Why?”

“My feet are _so_ sore. They’re swollen up like - like -”

“Like a pubescent youth’s sunburnt pustules,” I finished for him, craning my neck to see the two lumps on the end of his legs passing for feet. “Are you sure you haven’t smuggled in a couple of unquarantined seal pups and swapped them for your feet?”

“I haven’t taken my socks off in weeks, so for all I know, maybe!”

“Seals are a type of fish, right?” asked Cat.

“No,” said Lister.

“Absolutely not,” said I.

“A’ight,” said the Cat, and turned back to my wool. “Keep going, won’t you?”

“Don’t take them off,” I beseeched Lister, ignoring Cat. “Please, whatever you do, don’t take them off.”

“Man, it feels like my feet are one needle prick away from popping like an egg.” The same weariness that had been in his voice that night we swapped bunks was back. I couldn’t say no to him when he sounded like that, like the sleep deprivation of generations had suddenly descended upon him.

What I could do was annoy him and hope he forgot about it.

“Eggs don’t pop,” I said.

“Sure they do. Ever put an egg in the microwave? Bang!” He mimed an explosion, complete with cheek-aided sound effects.

I hadn’t ever put an egg in the microwave, because I wasn’t a total idiot. I was about to tell him this when he suddenly seized the end of a sock and began to tug.

“No, no, no!” I yelled, vaulting the table to reach him and karate chop his arm.

“You can’t hit pregnant people!” he exclaimed. “I’m a delicate flower, and you’re a great big baboon come to squash my petals!”

I don’t mind admitting this statement had me thrown.

“I’m a - you’re a - _what?”_

Lister resumed his tugging amidst my startled confusion, and before I could stop him, the sock slid half of the way off.

“Gas masks! Cat, gas masks! Now!”

But Cat had bigger fish to fry. He was only a leopard-print blur in my peripheral vision, and I didn’t turn fast enough to see him grab the wool I’d been using, but he must have, because some of it caught on the door handle on his way out. 

“Cat!” I cried, and vaulted the table again, hands outstretched, fearing for my precious crocheting’s safety. But Lister’s grunts of exertion behind me told me he had resumed the perilous activity of removing his socks. With the split-second survival instincts hammered into me by years of enduring private boarding school pranks, I dove beneath the table, curled up into a tiny, impenetrable ball and squeezed my eyes shut.

I first heard Cat scampering off down the corridor, and then the hiss of pain as Lister’s second sock was presumably peeled off, like the removal of the spiky outer layer from a durian.

Something floppy and crusty hit my face, and I was hit by a stench that could’ve driven the Cat away from a Burbury’s with a 50% sale on. I jerked backwards, hit my head on the table leg, tried to stand up, hit my head on the table top, and eventually managed to haul myself a few metres away from the offending object before collapsing with my face on the floor.

“You’re so dramatic, Rimmer,” Lister said, and when I opened my eyes, he was standing right in front of my face. 

More accurately, his swollen, putrid feet were.

After I passed out, I required three full days of aromatherapy rehabilitation, which just goes to show: Lister’s socks should be officially classified as a biohazard. Or at the very least, a Rimmerhazard. 


	8. Glowing

**8\. Glowing**

“Lister?” I called, wandering through the hallways of Red Dwarf. “Listy? Liiiiiiisteeeeeer…”

It wasn’t that I had any sort of news to give him, but as anyone who’s been cooped up with a limited number of activities to choose from for any length of time will know, sometimes one gets the urge to annoy one’s companions until they don’t feel much like being your companions anymore.

“Lister!” I called, cupping my hands around my mouth in an effort to amplify my voice.

“He’s out,” said Holly, appearing on a corner screen.

“Out?”

“Yeah. Gone out, hasn’t he.”

“How can he be out?”

“Well, you’re in, right?”

“Holly, if this is going to be another one of your facetious, wildly inappropriate, senile, idiotic comments, then -”

“It’s an acronym, innit?”

“What is?”

“Out. O - U - T.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Fine. _Fine._ What does OUT stand for, oh great and highly intelligent computer?”

“On - The - Roof.”

Holly should have long lost the ability to surprise me with his stupidity. I looked up in disbelief to see his smug face grinning back at me.

“I am going to go on a week-long tour of the engine decks, collect every single emergency escape axe, hammer and nail that there is, then I’m going to go to the library decks and read every book that’s even slightly related to hurting computers, and then I’m going to go to your CPU room and I am going to destroy you disk by disk while you live on in such excruciating pain that it finally, _finally_ wipes that stupid smegging smile off your face.”

“Just a thanks would’ve done,” said Holly.

I sighed and let my head thud against a nearby pipe. It was a hot water pipe, and it burnt my forehead.

“On the roof, you say?”

And so I began my weary trek to the roof hatch.

The roof was sort of peaceful when there was no-one actively shooting at you. We were in the vicinity of a large, pale, rocky planet, and the light was strong enough to cast fuzzy shadows on the red tin exterior of Red Dwarf. I saw Lister leaning on the railing that marked the edge of the ship’s gravity net, looking up at the pocked surface of the slightly off-white planet.

“I wonder what’s over there,” he murmured, though I hadn’t thought I’d made enough noise coming up for him to hear me. “Kryten said the gravity was within ten percent of Earth’s. It’d be safe enough if we terraformed it. How would you like that, eh? A whole planet for you to run around on.”

I got the feeling that he wasn’t talking to me. 

“I don’t really know what’s best for you kids,” Lister said thoughtfully, and that combined with the hand on his stomach gave me an insight into who he imagined his conversational participants to include. “Red Dwarf’s alright, I guess, it’s plenty big enough, and it’s probably marginally easier not to get killed. Knowing our luck, that big moon thing is full of some rare material, and some bloody simulants will come along and blow it up for fuel. That wouldn’t do, would it?”

His voice went all high and funny at the end.

“We don’t want any nasty simulants to come and blow us up, do we?”

It was practically a _coo._ Oh, this was good. If only I’d brought my voice recorder, it might be worth writing over all the captaincy acceptance speeches I’d rehearsed.

“Ugh, listen to me. You’re making me sappy, you two, you hear? God, Rimmer’d probably piss himself if he heard me now.”

I froze. Did he know I was there?

“For all his goitiness, though, he’s not so bad.”

He definitely didn’t know I was there.

“He’s going to help raise you. I think. If the first nappy doesn’t send him screaming and hyperventilating into the nearest dark space he can find. And that’s a big if.”

I opened my mouth to protest and promptly shut it again as my senses caught up with me.

“Uncle Rimsy has a nice ring to it, don’t it?” Lister chuckled and petted the top of his stomach. “You’re going to love winding him up.”

It should have been ridiculous. I should have been mortally offended. I should have marched up to him with a loudspeaker and told his unborn children in no uncertain terms that I was never to be called _Uncle Rimsy_ even if our lives, nay, the entire universe, nay, the very fabric of reality itself depended on it.

But I’d been flagrantly abandoning all of the _should haves_ in my life of recent, and this was just one more. Instead, I sat in silence and watched Lister, his head tipped back in the moonlight.

I was beginning to understand the temptation to describe pregnant people as _glowing._


	9. Crochet

**9\. Crochet**

“You know,” I commented idly while trying to unknot the mess Cat had made of my wool for the seventh time that morning, “If you were only having one baby, this’d be half the work.”

“Eh?” Lister grunted.

“I said, if you were only having one -”

“I heard you. What’d be half the work?”

“What do you think, the non-existent Red Dwarf entry for the Eurovision song contest? This!” I held up the wool. 

“Right,” said Lister, putting down his glass of orange-coloured blue-flavoured fizzy (something had to fill in for the lager he was so used to). “And what you’re doing there is…?”

“Crochet,” I said, using my very best _you’re a dumb smeghead_ tone of voice.

“Crochet. With wool. In order to produce some… little sort of… lumpy things. How is that connected to my kids, exactly?”

“Lumpy things? _Lumpy things???”_ I seized the fruits of my labour and waved them in front of Lister’s face. “I’ve been working on these for weeks and you call them _lumpy things?”_

“Alright, keep your hair on.”

 _“I’ll_ keep _your_ hair on,” I muttered. “Wait, that doesn’t work.”

“It’s just a bit hard to tell what they are, Rimmer.”

I huffed, scandalised, and folded my arms.

“Don’t be like that. Just tell me, man.”

I threw one at his face, and he plucked it out of the air with his annoyingly not terrible hand-eye coordination. He inspected it from all angles, poking his finger inside and waggling it at me.

“It’s a finger warmer,” he said triumphantly. “For when my fingers get cold.”

“No, you doink.”

“Oh my god, Rimmer, tell me it’s _not_ a cock warmer.”

“How many cocks do you have?” I exclaimed, looking at the two others in my hand.

“Oh, just _tell me.”_

I suddenly became aware that the creation of these _things_ could easily be misconstrued as I, Rimmer, commanding officer aboard Red Dwarf and generally cool and aloof authority figure, caring about Lister’s children.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, leaning forwards to snatch it from Lister’s hands. He held it out of reach, shaking his head.

“Clearly it does. Go on, what’ve you been squinting like a constipated goat for the past month for?”

It was no use.

“Booties,” I mumbled, looking at my bootie-holding hands.

“What was that?” Lister leaned forwards.

“Booties,” I snapped with as much dignity as I could muster, tossing the other two at him. “Bootie-wooties for their little toesie-woesies, in case they get cold. Alright?”

“Alright,” Lister repeated faintly, looking at the three differently-sized booties in his hands. “I didn’t think about their toes.”

“Clearly.”

“You thought about their toes.”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves -”

“You _care.”_ Lister looked up at me with the horribly _soft_ expression that pregnancy apparently inflicted on pregnant people and said pregnant people’s roommates.

“I just don’t want to have to tidy up their toes from the floor if they drop off of frostbite.”

It was a pathetic attempt at cover, but for once, Lister let me have it, only rolling his eyes in response. I went back to crocheting the last bootie, though my fingers felt large and clumsy all of a sudden. And before I made more than ten stitches, he interrupted me again.

“Hey, Rimmer?” he asked, his voice oddly strained.

“Yeah?” My fingers paused.

“Thanks.” And then Lister smiled a huge, toothy grin, and everything was back to normal. “For protecting their _little toesie-woesies.”_

“Oh, shut up.”


	10. Denial, But This Time Lister's Uterus

It was half-past seven in the morning, and against my usual routine, I was allowing myself a lie-in. For all the important and worthwhile work I contribute to the ship, I deserve to lounge every now and then. Kryten, however, was determined to spoil my fun by being in an irritatingly good mood.

He bounced into the room, humming  _ happy birthday to you. _

“Mr. Lister, sir!” he exclaimed. I heard a distinct groan and heavy shifting in the bunk below me “Mr. Lister! A very happy birthday to young Jim and Bexley!”

“Whahuh?” Lister mumbled loquaciously.

I propped myself up on an elbow and peered at Kryten.

“It’s not a birthday ‘till they’re one,” I said.

Kryten paused. 

“It’s not? Then why is it called a birth day?”

“I dunno,” said Lister. “Also, babies usually don’t arrive the day they’re due. I think.”

I rubbed my eyes, and noticed the gigantic three-tiered white cake on the tray in Kryten’s arms.

“Ah,” said Kryten, and put down the cake. “I may have committed a grievous error.”

“You’re alright, Krytes. Can I have cake for breakfast?”

“You’re disgusting,” I said.

“Oi, where’s the brown sauce?”

“You’re  _ disgusting,” _ said I.

“Pregnancy cravings,” said Lister, as if spongecake and ganache coated in thick, tangy brown sauce wasn’t something he’d eat on a regular not-pregnant day.

Three days later, Lister had decided he was Fed Up With Being Pregnant.

“Come on, you wee smeggers,” he’d hiss to his belly. “Get a move on.”

By complete and total coincidence I had a stash of women’s magazines beneath my pillow, many of which had helpful tips for the natural induction of labour.

“We don’t even know if they’ll work on me,” said Lister doubtfully. “Since all my organs an’ things have gone wonky since the parallel universe.”

“Worth a shot,” I said, my eyes trained on the bullet point titled  _ nipple stimulation. _

And that is the story of how Lister and I broke our personal records for daily step count, our combined total coming to around seventy thousand. Well, I stepped. Lister  _ stomped. _

“The difference in level,” he panted, “is supposed to do something - something contract-y.”

“Yes, but I’m worried Jim and Bexley are going to just sort of plop out at this rate. Do you need to walk quite so heavily?”

“Look,” Lister said, continuing to stomp his way down the corridor, one foot on the raised outer platform. “Pregnant women used to do this along gutters in the road. I’m sure they’ll be just fine.”

I said nothing, though the gnawing in my belly continued. It had been getting stronger for a while now.

“Lister,” I began awkwardly, but it was timed with one of his vicious footfalls, and he appeared not to hear me over the noise. “Lister?”

“What?”

There was rather a lot I wanted to say, actually. Various sentiments, including  _ don’t die in childbirth, I’ll start a new cable collection in your honour if you do,  _ and  _ I have butterflies in my stomach whenever you look at me.  _ That last one had me convinced there was a new alien parasite spreading an illness around the ship.

“Can you walk quieter?” I asked instead.

We tried everything over the next week. Even nipple stimulation, which Kryten and I both had a go at: Kryten, with his favourite appropriately sized spanner, and I, with the longest pair of kitchen tongs I could find and my eyes screwed shut.

But none of it worked. Or at least, not right away.


	11. Acceptance (And Contractions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my plan for 11 x 300 word snippets went out the door. I had to do this justice, and there just wasn't a way to do it without making this more of a fully fledged chapter. I hope you enjoy this even half as much as I did writing it, because that would mean I'd done my job. And thank you all for the lovely supportive comments along the way ❤❤❤

Lister’s contractions arrived with the same amount of predictability as the M15’s traffic during rush hour: none at all. One minute I was enjoying a quiet read through  _ Baby Incoming: Prepare With Vigilance, _ and the next, Lister had rushed into the bunkroom, clutching at his stomach, his face tinged slightly green and sweaty.

“Smeg,” I said, and dropped the book on my face. “Ow.”

_ “You _ ow? No!  _ Me _ ow!” He took a moment to look indignant, and then bent over as if he’d been struck by a holowhip. “Ah fuck. Ow.” His mouth contorted into a pained grimace.

“I haven’t finished the book yet! There’s a chapter right at the end about delivery, you couldn’t have hung about for another day or two?”

“They’re two weeks late already, Rimmer,” Lister panted, bracing himself on his knees. “I could use a hand here.”

“Right away,” I nodded, flicking to the last chapter:  _ Delivery (But Not From The Post!). _ “Just give me a minute to skim this over.”

I only got through a couple of introductory sentences before I sensed Lister staring at me.

“What?”

“Rimmer, I’m in  _ labour.” _

I realized that I was being a complete and utter goit.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” I jumped to attention, tucking the book under my arm, and hurried forwards. It was then that I realized I had no plan for what I would do once I was, in fact, forwards. Hover awkwardly, it seemed.

Lister straightened up a bit.

“It’s alright,” he said weakly. “The contractions are still pretty far apart.”

“Let’s get you to Kryten, all the same.” I wasn’t about to take chances with Lister. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” 

But he stumbled a little as he went, and my arms reached out without my permission to steady him. I usually have exemplary control over my limbs, each movement perfectly refined and controlled, every single one requiring a doubly-verified certificate of Allowed Movement before execution. But even though the Allowed Movement of Taking My Hands Off Lister had been signed in triplicate, my hands remained exactly where they were.

“Rimmer?” Lister asked, and I sent through a fresh order of Taking My Hands Off Lister, to no avail.

“Yes?” I replied, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about us standing close enough for our jackets to brush.

“If I die today -”

“If you  _ what?” _

“I’m just saying, we don’t exactly know how this works, and it’s twins, and -”

“You’re not going to die. Of all the unintelligent, ignorant, dense, brainless -”

“- Rimmer -”

“- mindless, foolish, dull-witted -”

“-  _ Rimmer -” _

“- dull, um, witless, slow-witted, um, uh,  _ slow, _ um, ooh, dunce-like, er, simple-minded -”

“Are you done?”

“- things to say,” I finished sourly.

Lister raised his eyebrows. “Never mind, then. Come on.” 

I helped him out of the room without further comment, but I couldn’t help but feel that I might have missed something important. If he thought he was going to die, what  _ would _ he say to me? Would he ask me to look after his children? What would be the last words David Lister, last human alive, ever spoke?

Probably something like  _ pass the brown sauce, ta. _

A few hours later, I thought I had already put enough effort into all this Lister-having-children business without having to look after Jim and Bexley on top of it. He seemed to have forgotten that my hard light form could feel pain, because my hand had gone numb from how tight he was holding onto it.

“Five minutes between them,” Kryten said as Lister groaned with the pain of a new contraction, his fingers somehow, impossibly, tightening on mine. “The transition phase is starting.”

“What does that  _ mean?”  _ Lister gasped, his eyes screwed shut.

“It means that this will all be over soon,” I said quickly. “Lickety-split, isn’t that right, Kryten me old chum?”

Kryten visibly hesitated. 

“Well, transition can take up to -”

“Lick-split,” Lister hissed.

“I mean, yes, as you say, Mr. Rimmer, sir. It will all be over quite quickly.”

“Well, then. I think that’s my cue.” I tried to prise my fingers out of Lister’s sweaty grip, but he clung fast. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

“Um. Out?”

“Don’t you smeggin’ dare,” he gritted out. “I am  _ not _ doing this on my own.”

It wasn’t like I had much of a choice, being practically handcuffed to his side.

“If you’ll be staying, you can take this cloth, here,” said Kryten, pushing a damp cloth into my other, uncrushed hand. 

“For what?”

“To wipe his forehead.” Kryten said it as if it should be obvious. “Haven’t you seen any  _ Call the Midwife,  _ sir?”

“No I smegging haven’t!” I went to put the cloth down, but Lister’s forehead caught my eye, and really, it was terribly sweaty. I smoothed it over with the cloth, and Lister leant into the touch. It felt to me as if this meant something, but I decided that it didn’t, for a number of reasons:

  1. Lister was not in his normal state of mind;
  2. Lister didn’t have the same amount of certified control over his limbs that I did;
  3. What the movement could mean was a black abyss of terror that promised certain demise upon further inspection.



I repeated my movement, and Lister repeated his movement, and the black abyss of terror loomed further over me. Combined with the realization that I was going to see the babies in all of their goopy newborn glory, I was feeling a little faint.

“I think I need to sit down,” I said.

“You know what you need to do, Rimmer?” Lister said with surprising coherence. “You need to face the smegging music and wipe that stupid look off your face, because if you pass out, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

Despite Reason Number One (see above), I felt that there was a strand of Lister capable of reasonable thought showing through for a moment. I tried to remember back to my research, but quite honestly, I’ve never been the best at studying. (Shocking, I know.)

“The support person should offer lots of encouragement and praise during the transition period,” said Kryten solemnly. “And not think something is wrong if the pregnant person is angry.”

Encouragement and praise. Those particular activities had never been my strong point. But I would try, because surely giving birth had never been a strong point Lister had imagined himself to have, and yet here we both were.

“Well done,” I said awkwardly, and passed the cloth over his head again. “Erm. You’re doing very well. I’m - I’m proud of you.” 

After the initial hurdle of  _ praising Lister  _ was passed, it got easier. I simply told him the truth.

“You’ve come so far, and you’re not giving up now. It’s not long to go. You’ll be alright, Listy, I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving. Hold onto me, and we’ll do it together. I’m proud of you, and you should be too.”

Some of what I went on to say in the next hour can never be written. Suffice to say that emotions run high in a birthing room, and what is said in the safety of the medical bay does not leave the safety of the medical bay, and for the first time in my life, I became a huge sap. 

For the first time in Lister’s life, he became a parent.

Once the pushing and the panting and the snipping was done, Lister lay in bed, covered in things more disgusting than the usual mix of old curry and general grime. He held two babies, both screaming, both also covered in disgusting things. He smiled.

“Jim and Bexley,” he said, looking at first one, then the other, then at me, and repeating as if he didn’t know which one could bring him the most joy.

I looked from one child to the other, tiny chubby faces with Lister’s nose and Lister’s eyes. It struck me that if all I ever did was ensure the safety of Jim and Bexley, I would have had a death well led.

“Get in here,” said Lister, a crack in his voice. I realized after a moment that he was talking to me, and also that Kryten had left the room. I sat on the bed, and leaned forwards, offering a hand to each child. Jim grabbed my finger, and Bexley began to cry.

“Miladdos,” I said, softly.

Lister chuckled, and when I looked up at him, he was wearing his dimpled sunshine smile.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

And a lot of thoughts clicked into place at once. Thoughts like  _ I love you, I’m in love with you, oh smeg I’m so stupidly in love, I want to help you raise your children because I’m so in love with you, is it too early to propose, I haven’t courted you properly, what sort of dowry do your parents require, I’ll pay it, I want to kiss you. _

With a startling amount of bravery and a very minimal amount of rational thought, I kissed him. He tasted of salt and sweat and curry, and his throat made a quiet sort of strangled noise, so I pulled back.

“Oh,” said I, misgiving and self-doubt hitting me harder than a fatal wave of Cadmium II radiation. “Shit.”

“You idiot,” said Lister. “You complete and total smeghead.”

My flight-or-faster-flight response engaged. I tensed to bolt.

“I’ve been waiting  _ ages _ for that, and you choose the moment I’m covered in my own blood and piss.”

“I -  _ piss?” _

“You can’t expect a man to keep his bladder under control during labour, can you?”

“You’ve been waiting ages for that?” I asked, feeling faint for at least the five hundredth time that night.

“You couldn’t even wait until Kryten took the little tykes away to be cleaned, could you? Not even till I had a free hand to pull you back with.”

“To - to pull me back?”

“I’ve been free of responsibilities this entire time, desperate for you to get a move on, and the moment I’m saddled with Jim and Bex, you somehow find the courage. Incredible.”

“Desperate?”

Bexley wailed with an impressive volume then, and Lister clucked sympathetically.

“Can you take Jim for a bit?” he asked, and I accepted, because this was my life now. Lister and kissing Lister and Lister’s children.

Jim had, if my calculations were correct, spent more than three quarters of his ten minute long life asleep. Quite impressive. Perhaps he should take up a career as a professional mattress-tester.

Oblivious to the career prospects I had laid out for him, he snuffled in his sleep, and poked his tongue out. A gentle warmth kindled in my otherwise cold, dead heart, and a protectiveness that I was entirely unaccustomed to flooded through me. I was like a tiger, with sharp claws and huge teeth, and if anyone so much as touched a hair on Jim’s head, I would be on them. I would stomp them to the ground. I would -

“You’re aware you’re talking out loud, aren’t you?” Lister interrupted.

“Ah. Not entirely.” Bexley had stopped crying, choosing instead to stare at Lister with wide, unseeing eyes.

“Anyway, yeah. Desperate.”

It took me a moment to recollect the context of the conversation, and then I froze, looking down at Jim.

“Desperate?” I whispered.

“Desperate,” Lister confirmed.

“Waiting?”

“For ages.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

“Oh,” I said, in a deep and manly voice with no squeaks. “That’s nice.”

“KRYTEN!” Lister bellowed with no warning. I jumped, and Bexley began to cry again. Jim seemed either to not care or have no survival instincts, sleeping right through the noise. 

Kryten rushed in, pushing two baby-trolley-things.

“Sirs!” he exclaimed, holding his hands to his mouth. “Oh, sirs, the miracle of birth - would you like a commemorative photo before I clean them up? To remember this special, special moment?”

Lister, I should mention, was at this point wearing only a hospital gown, soaked through with aforementioned unmentionable things.

“We’re alright, actually,” he said easily.

“In that case, shall I clean and weigh the two little ones?”

“Thanks, Kryten.” Lister eased Bexley into one of the trolleys, and I placed Jim gently into the other. I patted his head gently before Kryten wheeled him away.

In the remaining silence, I found myself able to look anywhere but at Lister. I settled for studying the unique pattern of cracks in the ceiling.

“Rimmer,” said Lister.

“Lister,” I said, still looking at the ceiling.

“For smeg’s sake,” he muttered, and suddenly his mouth was back on mine, his hands in my hair, and I - well - I can’t even begin to describe it. 

I’ll give it a try.

Lister was the sort of warmth that people were only supposed to feel twice in their life: when a parent hugged you for winning the Silver Swimming Certificate, and during menopause. He was all-consuming in his light, like a perfectly sunny day that went on and on and on, the kind of sun that reminded you of daisies blooming underneath a blue sky and sticky ice lollies that stuck to your tongue. Kissing him was also like having an ice lolly stuck to your tongue, except the lolly was warm and tongue-shaped.

My point is, Lister was an excellent kisser when he didn’t have a newborn child in each arm. And even then, he wasn’t bad.

We were interrupted much too soon by a terrible squawking outside the medbay, however, and upon further inspection we found the Cat brandishing two tiny sequined suits at Kryten, who had his hands on the baby trolleys.

“These kids need style!” he yowled. “Ain’t no one else around here gonna give it to them!”

“Cat, the kids need  _ sleep,”  _ said Lister, poking at one of the suits, “And these are not sleepy clothes.”

Bexley let out a whimper, and all four of us looked down to see him waggle his hand slightly before sticking it in his mouth. Jim sneezed in his sleep, and still didn’t stir. They were swaddled in blankets right down to their feet, which poked out of the end, bare and cold. 

“Luckily for Jim and Bexley,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket, “Uncle Rimsy is always prepared.”

I slipped four booties over four sets of tiny, perfect toes, and admired my work. A little lumpy, I will admit, but cosy.

“Miladdos,” I said, fighting back the urge to cry from the perfect picture they painted.

“No,” said Lister, wrapping an arm around my waist and tipping his head to rest on my shoulder.  _ “Our _ laddos.”

I feel that this is a good point at which to conclude the story of Lister’s pregnancy, not the least reason for this being that Jim has gnawed four of my pens to utter destruction and has his eyes on the emergency backup one with which I am writing. I hope one day he and Bexley will enjoy reading this, and if not, perhaps they can use it to embarrass Lister. Or maybe one day a particularly ambitious historian will come across Red Dwarf, find this journal, and publish it for a general audience to marvel at my incredible eloquence, in which case: good day, noble people! May the universe treat you well, and never forget the stories of the last three humans and their noble guide from across the veil - oh. Lister’s made tea. I better go and drink it before he gets annoyed.

_ \- Arnold Judas Rimmer _

**Author's Note:**

> [come yell at my tumblr](https://starknight-dreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
